Medic
by Lisilgirl
Summary: "I sit in the chair, watching Nala gnaw on bones." Predator!Medic contemplates life as a not-warrior.


_A/N: I have been watching Aliens and Predators kill and maim each other and humans for close to six years now, and I've decided that I needed to write a story about a sympathetic Predator (Yautja) and an intelligent Alien (Xenomorph). Enjoy!_

**Warnings: Mentions violence.**

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MEDIC

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It is my name.

It means I am not human.

For millennium, I watch. I see warriors of the Yautja -eager for the kill- never return. I see the children of the race grow to hunt for entertainment, for status, for mating. The elders made our civilization of bone, metal, and blood – what have we left to do except hunt?

I sit in the chair, watching Nala gnaw on bones.

The heat from the close, burning sun sweeps into the doorway, stripping the life off the rocks. The trophies of my prey on the wall –bitter white skulls of humans, skins of lizards and aliens- sit in dust next to the glinting _combi stick_ and _chakrams_ of my younger years. I defeated many of the killer Xenomorphs, bringing back glory and shining for a time. It ended when my fury for the kill was taken by a well aimed tail of the prey between my neck and collarbone (1). The anger is lessened. There is no want to fight in my body. The helmets of my struggles are smeared with touches by younglings' fingers and years worth of dust.

Scars of green keloid adorn my jaw and wrists and the armor I wear under my thin robes sits comfortably on my shoulders. The anger is lessened. There is no want to fight in my ebony beads clack on my appendages sharply when I shake my head; my fingers tap on the metal chair, screeching and creating dashes. The mindless skittering of my mandibles make Nala's elongated head whip to me. She curls on the floor. Her sharp, bony tail sways back and forth as her awkward gray body clenches.

It is good to sit. The warriors who return today are remembering I am the only supplier of medicine.

I am an outcast. Hidden in the mountains, I make poultices and concoctions to keep the warriors fighting. I staple skin together and put chemicals in their bodies when they return from their struggles (1). The warriors leave again. And they return to gather my supplies like children gathering rare pieces of rock from the hills surrounding our gleaming metal civilization. The elders do not bother me; there are no visits to my sanctuary, but supplies are sent to me when I cannot find them in the crags.

Nala is growling at me for food. I wordlessly give her another hunk of meat from my side. She gnaws with flashing teeth, then crushes it like a feather in her jaws, and begins hissing in contentment. I stare at her black skin, her smooth head, her ribbed fingers. Her tail flaps again.

She is a strange creature to have with me when I confront those who did not fall to the Black Warrior (2). The warriors' eyes blink too much, and despite injury, they curse themselves for coming to the healer with the prey in home. She will slink around the back of the warm room, cackling and hissing. We gather materials from the crags of metal and rock surrounding my door, her playfully swiping at the mountainside to crush the environment. I let her romp, be free.

The elders asked for me to have her done away with, perhaps her head mounted on my wall? I denied. If they wanted me to stay to heal those who cannot heal themselves, I would have to have Nala with me. I named her. She must stay. (3)

The sun brightens on the mountaintops. I wait for it to vanish.

Footsteps come from the door and Nala hisses and her head bobs. A bang on the frame allows me to focus for one moment.

I grunt to my visitor to enter. He is a mere runt; his muscle is savagely ripped with a burn hole through his forearm. Half the flesh is falling from his bones. A handful of hair remains on his scalp. Not to my surprise, he is snarling at my creature on the floor, eyes narrowed to mere beads.

Growling, I motion the runt to the stretcher in the corner, rising to my creaking knees. The poultices on the third shelf will help the burn, and I grab the metal staples with the hammer. There are two painkillers from Nala's poisonous blood. The Yautja watches me, watches my alien, and watches me gather things close to him for his body. There is no talking. Why, when this runt does not trust me?

I gather the skin of his forearm close enough to the bone to stretch the muscle, and applying the painkiller, I staple metal through. He grunts. I continue applying a mash of sand and blood and leaves of the brush outside. Nala can smell the Yautja's blood; she scours my legs with her body, nudging my boots for a scrap of his flesh. I watch my patient's face.

When he shows signs of interest, I impress him by saying that she is a trophy from a small village on Earth, born from the body of a boy. Instead of attacking me on sight as a worm, she waited. Sightless eyes pleaded. It was long enough for me to give her a taste of fresh meat from the boy, to cajole her into a small jar. I took her to my home in the high-heated mountains before the skin fell from her outside and she grew. My guest listens, not noticing as the staples are exchanged for a needle and thick thread. I sew pieces of thick hide onto his flapping skin, strengthening it.

Can she infect? he asks. I can see his hand itching to touch her smooth head. Nala notices and grins at him.

The distraction is enough. I pull muscle, skin, and hide together in one smooth motion and staple it together. He howls in pain. The mash of healing powder is encircled around his shoulders and neck and legs, bound with thin strips of hide again. I hiss at him to remain quiet and not upset my animal; he glowers and yowls that she is a disgrace and will kill me and cannot even be part of our society.

I grip his shoulder, and remind him that I saved his future for hunting many like her.

There is little left I can do. I tell him to change the poultice in one week and return to deliver my payment of supplies from the Elders. His appendages quiver, and I do not miss the stare at my Nala, rolling and grinning on the floor.

He leaves the way he came.

The chair calls me back. Nala whines and gnaws on the chair's edge.

This Yautja is not the first to dishonor my only loyal creature. I have had threats against her, from dismembering to spiking her head. But when all the screams fade, and the warriors return from their adventure, they need me. And that need is greater than their fear.

I wonder why I stay. I am exiled. My creature is the only thing I trust. The old and young eyes see the gaping hole in my neck and know I will not hunt for adventure; the shame is no longer a problem because I do not bother. There is anger inside of me... but comfort. I feel like I have lived to see all I can see. I killed more than I should have been able to. I loved the creature I should have killed. I never sired any sucklings (4) because I do not need to. I am content.

So I sit, preparing for the new warriors to come and receive medical supplies from one of the oldest living Yautja. Nala makes a trilling noise and lowers her head to her fingers, eyeing the bone by my feet. I throw it to her.

We wait for the day when I will honor the warrior way, perhaps on a ship or on the Earth where I received my only comrade. I will die, with Nala, in the stars.

But still I sit in the chair, watching Nala gnaw on bones.

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_(1) In John Shirley's book _Predator: Forever Midnight_, there is supposed to be a gland between the neck and collarbone that causes insane amounts of aggression – usually ending in Predators killing each other. This feeling is controlled by hormone regulators; I stretched the truth to mean that if it was damaged and had to be removed, not a lot of aggression remains. Predators still have the desire to skin people alive, just not so bad._

_(2) The "Black Warrior" is the equivalent of the Grim Reaper._

_(3) There are mentions of "Killers": Predators who kill simply to kill, without regard to the honor code. They keep aliens as huge trained killing machines. Regular Predators hate this lack of finesse, desecrating the honor code, and keeping the enemy alive._

_(4) Predators are not monogamous. They have as many babies (called "sucklings") as possible._


End file.
